Your Rhythm

by Katia Rose

  “So you’re not on good terms?” he asks.

  “No, it’s not that. We’re just not...”

  I search for a way to describe the lukewarm relationships of the household I grew up in. There was never any fighting, no teenage screaming fits or childhood plots to run away, but there weren’t any late night bonding chats or awkward introductions to boyfriends either. We hugged as much as any family, and I know my mom cried for days when I moved out, but excessive displays of emotion were few and far between.

  “Sorry,” Matt tells me, as he digs for another Cheeto. “Am I prying too much?”

  “I’m a journalist. I’m not really the person to ask about the boundaries of prying,” I remind him. “It’s not that we have a bad relationship. They’re great, actually. We just don’t get into personal stuff much.”

  “Do you have siblings?”

  “Sort of.”

  He snorts. “How do you ‘sort of’ have siblings?”

  “I have two sisters, but they’re way older. They both left home when I was still a little kid. We don’t talk much.”

  This isn’t secret information, but I still feel like I’m confiding in him. He looks me over without saying anything for minute. I try to read into the constant tapping of his fingers, as if he’s using some kind of Morse code.

  “So Easter’s not a lively affair, I take it?”

  “Not particularly.” I break my last Cheeto in two and gulp down one of the halves. “So, what about you? Got siblings?”

  His whole face lights up.

  “A little brother. I guess he’s not so little anymore, though. He started high school this year. Kid’s ego is getting bigger by the day. Apparently he’s pretty hot shit at school, but I don’t know if I can trust his opinion of himself.”

  “Having a famous brother probably helps. You guys talk a lot?”

  “I try to be there for him.” He sets the now empty Cheeto bag down, a bit of the enthusiasm in his voice fading. “That’s one part of this whole ‘getting famous’ thing that worries me. I told him I’d always be around if he needed me. That’s not something you go back on.”

  “Hey.” Without thinking, I nudge his foot with mine. “I don’t know if I have the authority to say this, but I get some serious ‘I’m a good big brother’ vibes from you. I’m sure you do more than enough for him.”

  He nudges me back. “Thanks.”

  I fill the resulting silence with words before emotions can start flooding in.

  “So just the one brother?”

  “Just the one, unless you count Ace.” He barks out a bitter laugh. “I actually invited him to spend Easter with us. He’s been to Sudbury with me for holidays a few times. He said he has ‘stuff to do’ in Montreal this year.”

  “He doesn’t go see his family?”

  Matt hesitates. “This is confidential, right?”

  I pull the neck of my hoodie to the side. “No wires here.”

  He smirks. “Right. Sorry. It’s just that he’s not...really on speaking terms with them. In the five years I’ve known him, I don’t think he’s seen his parents once.”

  “That’s rough. Is that why he’s such an asshole?”

  The words are out of my mouth before I have to a chance process them. Matt’s look of shock starts to turn into something close to anger.

  “I’m a journalist,” I rush to explain. “I read people. I know things aren’t going great between you all.”

  He relaxes, going silent for a moment as he stares down at the other end of the terminal.

  “He’s been through some shit. He’s still going through some shit...Basically he’s just got a lot of shit to deal with.” Matt swallows. “But he’s got me too.”

  “Even if he doesn’t deserve you,” I mutter.

  His gaze snaps back to me as his tone takes on an edge. “That’s what being a brother is. It’s putting up with shit. It’s making a promise and sticking to it, even when you don’t want to.”

  “And is Ace sticking to his promise?”

  It’s not my place to get into what’s between them, but loyalty flows out of this guy like a river, and I hate seeing it all just seep down the drain.

  He shakes his head. “That’s not how it works. My friendship isn’t conditional.”

  I let that hang in the air until Matt sighs and slouches further down on the wall.

  “Sorry. I got a little intense there.”

  I hold up my Cheeto-stained hands. “Don’t apologize. I got in over my head. At the risk of sounding like a total loser, I don’t have many friends to compare the situation to.”

  He chuckles. “You really are the lone ranger type, aren’t you?”

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t make me sound even more pathetic.”

  “I don’t think it’s pathetic. There’s a lot to admire in that. You’re self-sufficient. You don’t let people boss you around. Sometimes I wish—”

  The loudspeaker crackles to life again, and we sit through the unintelligible French before straining to catch the only slightly more intelligible English.

  “All passengers on the eighty-thirty bus to Ottawa should now make their way to the gate. The bus will be boarding soon.”

  “That’s my first bus,” Matt tells me.

  “Guess you better get going, then.”

  He doesn’t stand up. In what feels like slow motion, he reaches his hand towards my face and brushes the tip of my nose with a finger. All the noise of the terminal fades.

  “How did you get Cheeto dust on your nose, Kay?”

  His head is bent close to mine, his voice so low and laced with temptation he might as well have just asked if I want him to kiss me. The rush of blood roaring in my ears is enough to answer that question.

  He drops his finger to my chin, ghosting over my lips and making my breath hitch.

  “I can’t control myself when it comes to Cheetos.” My voice is hoarse.

  He taps twice on my chin. “I like seeing you lose control.”

  Neither of us is thinking about Cheetos right now. My lips part as he tugs his finger downwards, inching towards my throat.

  “I like it when you look at me like this.”

  His hand falls into his lap and I regain the power to move. I turn away.

  “You’re going to miss your bus.”

  He stands and shoulders his bag. I only feel safe meeting his eyes again once he’s taken a step away.

  “Have a good Easter, Kay.”

  I give him half a smile but don’t trust myself to speak. He stares down at me for a moment and then he heads off into the crowd. He’s already out of earshot by the time I murmur my goodbye.

  “You too, Matt.”

  11 Honey Whiskey || Nothing But Thieves

  MATT

  I grunt as I hoist up yet another heavy black case with ‘Sherbrooke Station’ stenciled in spray paint on its side. We just started unloading at the Salle J. Antonio-Thompson, a huge Art Deco theatre that’s one of the main concert venues in Trois-Rivières.

  I drop the box down on the stage and can’t help thinking that the two tiers of empty, red-padded seats might not be enough. Even before all our chart-topping success, we’d sell out every venue we booked in Trois-Rivières, mainly due to JP seeming to know almost every single person in the city. He’s always been vocal about his roots, and the people here take a lot of pride in him.

  So much pride, in fact, there was an actual riot outside the high school auditorium we played last summer. About fifty people without tickets tried to force their way in. It was the first time the cops were called to any of our shows, and I have to admit it felt pretty fucking rock and roll.

  “Matt, wrong side of the stage, man. I need that shit over here.”

  I look over to where Nico’s flagging me down with his tablet.

  “Right, right.” I stoop to pick up the box again.

  I’ve been doing shit like that all day: putting stuff in the wrong spot, dropping things, staring off into space when so
meone’s trying to have a direct conversation with me. I’m not naive enough to pretend it has nothing to do with the anticipation of seeing Kay in about four hours.

  It’s been almost two weeks since I took her to the rooftop, and I can still taste her lips on my tongue, still feel the curve of her hips under my hands. I know that if it weren’t for the sub-zero temperatures, that night probably would have ended with us naked and sweaty, pressed up against the stairwell wall. The thought of all the lines we were so close to crossing, and the memory of the ones we did, haven’t left my mind ever since.

  She may have stopped things as soon as the kiss ended, but I know that whatever we’ve started isn’t going to let either of us go that easily. We’ve turned a spotlight onto something that’s just been waiting in the wings until now. I can’t shake the feeling that tonight this pull between us is finally going to take centre stage.

  “Matt, seriously. This is the third time I’ve asked you to pass me that tape.”

  I shake my head. “Yeah, right. Tape. Got it.”

  We’ve got a smaller crew with us than we usually do, so me and the guys offered to step in as roadies for the day, just like we used to back before our shows got bigger and we became more annoying than helpful when it came to all the complicated setup. We’re at the hall all day, breaking only when so many boxes of pizza show up it takes three delivery guys to get them in the building.

  The hours fly by in a blur of running around and heavy lifting. Soon we’re up doing our sound check before we’re due to meet Kay. In contrast to the Ottawa disaster, this one is smooth sailing; we only have to make a handful of adjustments before we all feel ready for the show. Something about working with the crew all day and being back in Trois-Rivières has even Ace in a good mood. For the first time in awhile, I’m hit with an electrical surge of hope, a glowing moment of optimism for the future of this band.

  That’s quickly followed by an extra dose of guilt for the lie I told them. I knew they wouldn’t risk getting in trouble with Atlas just for Kay’s sake, and I seem to be the only one who’s not onboard with the label’s media scheme, so I said Kay had the green light to go ahead and keep interviewing us. No one asked any more questions after that, and I tried telling myself I wasn’t even stretching the truth that far. The interviews with Kay were already scheduled before Atlas decided to take control. We’re not getting in contact with any new journalists without their approval. Technically nothing about this is wrong.

  Still, I feel a twisting in my gut as we haul our instrument’s off the stage so our opener, JP’s cousin—half of Trois-Rivières seems to be populated by JP’s cousins—and his band can do their own sound check.

  “Ready to see Kay?” Ace asks me. “Sure you’re gonna be able to hide your boner?”

  “Sacrement. I don’t have a boner.”

  JP claps me on the shoulder. “But you do want to bone her.”

  “I thought they already boned?” Cole joins in.

  “How many fucking times are we going to say the word ‘bone’?” I demand.

  Ace grins. “Just until you bone her with your boner.”

  I pull him into a headlock and he tries to throw me off, the two of us lurching around until we almost knock over a lighting rig.

  “Watch the gear, children!” Nico calls from a few feet away.

  I let Ace go and the four of us head to the meeting room I scouted out and texted Kay about. She’s not there when we arrive, so we take seats around the glass coffee table that fills up most of the floor space.

  “The snake is late,” Cole observes.

  They’ve all taken to calling her the snake, mostly because they know it pisses me off. I don’t bother giving them the satisfaction of getting annoyed. A few seconds later, Kay bursts through the door, wearing the same oversized army jacket as she did on the roof. Her face is flushed from either running, the cold, or both.

  “Sorry I’m late, guys,” she pants. “My French is so terrible it’s making everything here take longer.”

  JP smiles at her. “Let me know if you need a translator, Mademoiselle Fischer.”

  JP has also taken to flirting with her every chance he gets, again because he knows it pisses me off. I’ve always been the one everyone enjoys pissing off the most. JP said it’s something about my face. I try to stay as neutral as possible as he gives me a shit-eating grin.

  Kay, on the other hand, hasn’t looked at me since she walked in the room. She gets out her now-familiar recording device and sets it up on the table before pulling up a document on her phone. Even without her looking at me, I feel like we’re aware of each other’s every move. If there was tension between us before, it’s now increased to the point where every muscle in my body is braced against the feeling that I’m about to snap.

  I don’t know exactly what ‘snapping’ would mean in this context, but I’m sure I don’t want the rest of the band in the room when it happens.

  Kay flicks her gaze to me for the first time, and I grip the underside of my chair.

  Get it together, Pearson. All she did was look at you.

  She barely pays me any attention for the rest of the interview, but my eyes stay focused on her mouth like it’s their job, watching the flick of her tongue against her teeth as she speaks. Most of her questions are about our connection to Trois-Rivières and get directed at JP. When she lets out a laugh at something he says, I swear I feel the sound go straight to my cock.

  I start drumming a beat against my thighs, trying and failing to keep myself from getting even more strung out. It’s like now that I’ve tasted her, I can’t sit here in the same room without focusing on anything else but wanting more.

  “How important of a role do you think Quebec culture plays in your work?” I hear her ask.

  “It’s very important to me,” JP answers. “I’m the only French Canadian in the band, and I don’t want people to forget that. I don’t want us to just be a band from Montreal; I want us to be a band from Quebec too. It’s my culture. It’s part of me and it’s part my music.”

  “How do you think that shows in your songs?” Kay prompts.

  “It’s part of our style. I play the harmonica. We have some Québécois sounding violin parts on the album. Ace uses joual slang in his lyrics, which is more Montreal than Trois-Rivières, but still, that’s the shit I grew up with. I like that we can work it in with the rest of our sound.”

  I do a double-take, surprised every time JP says something that’s not a joke. Kay’s watching him like she’s caught off guard, too. Not many people can bring out that side of him, and I’m glad for the assurance that this was the right thing to do. This is the kind of stuff people need to hear from us, not just another story of an after party gone wrong.

  Kay wraps things up soon after that so we can keep getting ready for the show. I hang back as the rest of the guys leave, ignoring the looks they give me as I wait for Kay to gather up her stuff.

  “You coming to the show?” I ask.

  She jumps like she didn’t know I was still in the room.

  “Yeah,” she answers, recovering herself. “It’s my job.”

  “You should come out with us after. Things always get interesting when we’re in Trois-Rivières.”

  She gives me a cautious smile. “That is definitely not my job.”

  “I don’t want you to come for work. I want you to come for me.”

  I blurt it out without thinking, both of us going silent as we take in the words. The double entendre wasn’t intentional, but I’m pretty sure it’s not lost on either of us. I swallow hard.

  She looks at the floor. “Matt...”

  “Kay,” I say evenly. I’m not going to let my nerve fail me now. “I don’t know if you’re trying to convince yourself last week was a mistake, but I know what I felt, and I don’t regret any of it. You shouldn’t either.”

  “It’s not that I regret it. I just don’t think—”

  “Don’t think. It’s a night out. With me. And the ba
nd. And our crew. And probably half the city. No one’s going to think twice about you being there. Just spend some time with me.”

  She shifts her backpack up onto her shoulder. “I guess I do owe you. I don’t know how you managed to get me this interview, but thanks.”

  Her tone is light, an attempt to break the intensity of the moment, but I can’t ignore what she’s saying.

  “You don’t owe me,” I insist. “We have a deal. This isn’t part of that.”

  She stares me down with that all-knowing expression of hers, the one that makes me feel transparent.

  “So what exactly is this?”

  I decide that it’s my turn to lighten the mood. I tap my chin as I consider her for a moment longer.

  “The interview’s over. You can ask me the rest of your questions tonight.”

  My prediction was right. Literally half the city has tried to pack itself into the two storey bar tonight. For probably the sixth time since I walked in, someone taps me on the shoulder and points at the bar, miming out buying me a drink. It’s impossible to hear anyone over the noise, which is all well and good, because even if I could make out what people were saying the Magoua dialect and heavy accents would be lost on me.

  I just smile and point to some distant corner that I turn and head towards. If I’d accepted every drink offer so far I’d be beyond pissed by now. I lost track of the rest of the band awhile ago, and I don’t really want to know what state they’re in.

  I find a spot for myself and pull my phone out, checking for any messages from Kay. She wasn’t in the press section at the show, but I know she likes to be a part of the crowd. Something jumps to life inside me when I spot a new notification next to her name.

  Help. I’m outside the bar, but there’s no way I’m getting in there.

  I make my way over to the front door, dodging pint glasses and more drink offers as I go. Poking my head out past the bouncers, I spot her loitering on the sidewalk with about twenty other people the place is too full to let inside.

  “Kay!” I shout.

  She turns towards me and walks over, giving the bouncers a wary glance.